


All We Shall Know

by sewn



Series: Gen Prompt Bingo 18 [4]
Category: The Shannara Chronicles (TV)
Genre: Bathtubs, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Hair Washing, Morning After, Parent/Child Incest, maudlin hungover thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:00:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25727059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sewn/pseuds/sewn
Summary: Her hair is a mess.
Relationships: Allanon/Mareth (Shannara)
Series: Gen Prompt Bingo 18 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1737304
Kudos: 5
Collections: Gen Prompt Bingo Round 18





	All We Shall Know

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to “In at the Eye” and “In at the Mouth” but works somewhat as a standalone, again set in a fix-it/canon-divergent future. I cannibalized some of my other fic for this, but what can I say.
> 
> Also for the Gen Prompt Bingo square “Gentle.”

Mareth is the first to wake. Unbidden, morning trickles into her. She tries to resist the gray light, but it forces itself into her eyes, ignoring her half-hearted attempt to cling to sleep. Or perhaps memory.

She’s not sure where one becomes the other, but it doesn’t really matter. Shared dreams might as well be real. As real as the itching corners of her eyes as she gives up and takes in her father’s sleeping face.

She should feel weird. She rarely beds humans. She rarely gets this drunk. She never—well.

And yet, despite everything, despite the cloud in the back of her head, the ache behind her eyes, she’s above all content—if not entirely physically comfortable. Her father’s skin is too hot on her waking body. Everything in and on her feels sticky and gross. Still, the soreness between her legs is pleasant. Her wandering mind catalogues the marks on her skin.

What she can’t feel anymore is _him_. Not like that. The connection has returned to normal: a simple awareness. She’s never felt something quite like last night.

She runs her fingertips along the curve of his bicep, not quite touching. Allanon looks calm and she doesn’t want to wake him up, but he must sense her anyway as he stirs.

“Morning,” she whispers and holds back the impulse to press her mouth to his. It wouldn’t taste great anyway.

Even now, barely awake, he is to the point. Immediate, eyes guarded, but voice soft. “How do you feel?”

In its core it is a question she can’t answer in words right now, so she deflects, the only concession a brush of fingertips down his cheek. He’ll understand, used to hiding himself.

“Hungry. Dirty.” She scrunches up her nose. “I’d like a bath, if they have those here.”

They do; a separate, low cabin across the backyard. There’s no one here but them, the innkeep says, a look of practiced indifference in her eyes. Mareth doesn’t really care about thin walls, but Allanon thanks the innkeep stiffly.

Mareth expects the shack to have nothing but buckets of cold water, but when she pushes the door open, the air that greets her is warm and scented. Some technological construct hums in the corner: it must warm the water without any fire. Mareth has never been too interested in this side of the power, but there’s no denying its usefulness. The tub can be filled with a faucet and the water is just this side of too hot.

Her hair is a mess: mostly still up in the two buns she favors, but some of the coiled braids have come half-undone. She undoes the buns and lets the tangled lumps of hair fall down. If she wants to wash her hair properly, she has to comb them all open.

“Would you like me to help?” Allanon’s offer echoes last night, which he must realize because he looks a little uncomfortable even after she smiles.

He is slow but methodical. Mareth closes her eyes and counts the pins being pulled out of her hair. They clink mutedly on the small table, one, two, three—until they’re all gone. Then, the first gentle tug in her scalp as he unravels the first braid, just firm enough that it sends a pleasant jolt down her neck.

Whatever awkwardness has built up, it melts away while he untangles her hair. They shed clothes again with no attempts at modesty and climb in the bath. They fit comfortably together, her between his legs, and he continues working on her hair.

“I’ve never seen you with your hair down.” His voice is as warm as his hands. It is just as weird to be touched this carefully by him as it is to hear him make light conversation.

“It’s impractical.”

“Your mother wore her -” He clicks his mouth shut and his hand stops on its way through her locks, down her chest.

Mareth’s heart lurches, but she takes his wrist. “It’s okay,” she says quietly. She means it, even if she wonders if she should. She waits for his fingers to uncurl before letting go.

“I used to think it was unfair,” she says when her heart has settled down, though her cheeks are still tingling somewhat unpleasantly. “Mom had the most beautiful hair in the world, I thought when I was a kid. She’d braid beads in there. Flowers.” She relaxes back against him as he reaches for the soap. “But she always put my hair up, ever since I could walk. So I wouldn’t get it all messy running around. Getting into fights.” She glances over her shoulder, just enough to see the corner of his mouth.

The next press of his fingers makes her ears twitch and eyes close. It is unspeakably nice. Not something she usually associates with Allanon. The soap smells much nicer, too, than she would have expected in a place like this. Surely no cherry tree grows here. The trail of his strong thumbs on the back of her neck and up and down the ridge of her shoulder blades lulls her into a slumber that only lifts when he continues upward along the rim of her ear and it sends a spark through her foggy head.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, signaling the end. She turns around, water sloshing. Searching his eyes, she finds no regret there. “Let me do you?” He must be sore after a night slept in such a crowded bed.

They rearrange themselves in the tub so she has access to his broad back, his muscled arms. She has enough reach to feel his heartbeat and its twin thrum on his back, against her when she presses close. 

She knows there is still time for her to feel him like this: real, against her body. But she can already see that time running out on the horizon. They haven’t talked about it much, but he won’t be awake forever. And she might not be here when he wakes up.

She presses her mouth on a rune. She doesn’t feel the magic today, but it’s not bad. In its place is a connection they created on their own. Something in her sparkles. Something precious, something she’s not equipped to handle, like a delicate bottle of fine wine.

“Mareth -”

It’s the tone of his voice that finally makes her drop her face against his shoulder and cover her hot eyes.

“I’m okay. It’s all good,” she says, muffled, still meaning it. She has learned to accept the inevitable.

For a moment she fears he’s going to say something uncharacteristic again and make this into a conversation she is too tired to have. But he only covers her hand with his and squeezes gently.

She feels nice—she feels content. She’s in the middle of nowhere, on the road, and for now, she is home.

**Author's Note:**

> Wine comes in at the mouth  
> And love comes in at the eye;  
> That’s all we shall know for truth  
> Before we grow old and die.  
> I lift the glass to my mouth,  
> I look at you, and I sigh.  
> — _A Drinking Song_ , W.B. Yeats


End file.
